The Faithful And The Low
by Q.E.D. 221B
Summary: Lestrade accidently scares Mycroft coming home drunk from an office party. Sherlock, in his own way, explains the situation to him so he can work at fixing it.      Talk of physical child abuse and alcohol abuse. Mystrade H/C
1. Chapter 1

Greg knew the second he woke up alone on the sofa with a splitting headache to the shrill ring of his mobile, the even shriller lecturing of his Sergeant - that the day (or at the very least, the morning) was going to be, to put it frankly, a bitch.  
>As such, it only made sense for the front door to swing open with a painfully loud bang, and for the world's (most annoying) only consulting detective to stride inside, completely unannounced and uninvited mere moments after said awakening.<p>

"You could have knocked," Greg groaned, rubbing at his temples. "I would have answered."

Sherlock, who seemed to be staring intently down at the carpet before his feet, ignored him entirely.

For a long moment there was silence. Greg sought out relief via the pack of aspirin stowed away inside his jacket pocket (he took note to thank Sally for those later) and Sherlock did circuits of the living room, staring at everything in it as if it were part of the most grisly crime scene he'd ever seen.

"What are you doing?" Greg groaned on the detective's fourth go around.

Instead of answering, Sherlock asked, "Have you moved from that spot?"

"Moved?"

"From that spot, yes," Sherlock snapped, "Since you've woken up - have you moved?"

Frowning suspiciously at his interrogator, Greg slowly answered, "No I haven't. What are you up to?"

Again, Sherlock didn't bother to answer. Instead, he began his fifth circuit.

Greg groaned.

"Are you trying to make me dizzy you bastard?" he asked, pressing his face into his hands.

Again, Sherlock refused to answer.

Rubbing his eyes tiredly, Greg asked, not really expecting an answer this time either, "Have you heard from Mycroft by any chance? He just left last night. I'd thought he would be back by now. He usually likes to spend his days off at home."

"My brother's at Baker Street," Sherlock replied distractedly, poking intently at the wall opposite the door.

Greg sighed, "Has he got a case for you or something? That why you're here? Is evasion your tactic of the day today Sherlock, you bloody git."

"Oh no," Sherlock replied, finally standing up properly and turning to face him. A grin was slowly spreading across his face. It made Greg's skin crawl. "Confrontation's the name of today's game. Mycroft pulled rank and decided evasion was his. Stand here please."

Greg frowned at the sudden change of topic.

"What the hell are you on about?" he groaned, "Come over here, lazy sod."

"I said stand here," Sherlock snapped, pointing sharply to the spot immediately in front of him, his tone deathly serious, "Now."

With a sigh, Greg pulled himself to his feet, stumbled around the coffee table and stood obediently where he was told. There was no reaching Sherlock when he was in a mood such as this, best just let him have his little tantrum and be done with it.

"Excellent," Sherlock murmured.

"What the hell's this all about Sherlock," Greg asked again, glaring at the detective as he began to circle around him.

"Last night," Sherlock began, his voice deceptively light, "One of my experiments were interrupted at a really crucial moment. I'm going to have to start it all over again, but that's neither here nor there. Tell me Lestrade - why do you think my experiment was interrupted?"

"You got distracted by something shiny?" Greg sarcastically suggested .

Ignoring the jab, Sherlock continued, "I was interrupted, because I had to answer the door to and then proceed to calm down my rather frazzled brother. Well I say frazzled, others would call it beside himself."

"What? Why?" cried Greg , spinning around to face the detective, "What happened? Is he alright? Where is he now?"

"I told you," Sherlock grumbled, "He's at Baker Street."

Greg went to grab his coat and make his way down to Baker Street at a frankly illegal speed, but was stopped by Sherlock's sudden barking, "Don't. Move. From. That. Spot."

"Sherlock - what the hell!" he yelled, "Get out of my way!"

"Not until I am done," Sherlock snapped, "He's fine. Probably better without you there for the time being. So stand there and shut up."

"What do you mean by that?" hissed Greg, "Probably better without me why?"

"Because he came to my flat, terrified, because you came home drunk as a lord and proceeded to corner him and-"

"Hang on!" Greg cried, "You're making it sound like I tried to rape him or something. It was nothing like that! How could you even suggest-"

"I'm not suggesting anything."

"Is that what he thinks I-"

"No he does not," Sherlock snapped, "Your intentions are not the reason I'm here. I don't care in what capacity your already lacking brain is running at whilst your trying to get off with my brother. Your trying to get off with my brother at all I still find highly disturbing, the mere idea of Mycroft having sex," Sherlock shuddered, "...but I've moved past that."

"How big of you."

"And in a way - you can't be blamed for this."

"What the hell's your problem then?" Greg barked, "Why won't Mycroft see me if I've not done anything wrong.

"I said you're not to blame," Sherlock snapped, eyes flashing dangerously, "Not that you didn't do anything wrong. "

Undaunted, Greg hissed, "Sherlock. Why are you here?"

Sherlock shrugged.

"Two reasons. First, to explain to you exactly why my brother reacted the way he did and why and how you will avoid this from reoccurring in future."

Greg nodded. He would like to know that.

"And the second?" he asked.

Sherlock smiled coldly.

"You terrified my brother Lestrade. I gave you that stupid 'hurt him, I hurt you' speech when you two started this little affair. I meant what I said."

"So that's what you're doing then is it," hissed Greg, "I scared Mycroft so you're going to scare me."

Sherlock grinned.

"Precisely."

They were already practically nose to nose, so when Sherlock stepped forward, Greg was forced to take a step back.

"Tell me Lestrade," he hissed, "What has my brother told you of our childhood?"

Greg faltered, not quite knowing where all this was going.

Frowning, he replied, "Nothing really. He doesn't like to talk about it. I guess it wasn't all that nice."

"Good guess Inspector," Sherlock praised, although hollowly, "It wasn't. Now tell me, how many times have you seen my brother drunk?"

"I don't know!" Greg snapped, thinking hard, "I can't remember him ever getting drunk."

"That's because my brother never gets drunk," Sherlock replied, "He abhors it. Loss of your control, your senses, it's not his thing."

"Yeah alright," Greg grumbled, "And?"

Sherlock took another step forward, and then another, snarling "You're a detective. Let's see you earn those stripes. Connect the dots for me."

Sighing, Greg guessed, "Someone in your family had an alcohol problem, probably took it out on the family and now Mycroft doesn't want to have anything to do with it."

"Bravo Lestrade," Sherlock sneered, "I was hoping you'd go deeper, but you've got the geest of it."

"But I haven't got the bloody geest of it," Greg snapped, "We've been out to pubs and restaurants before, walked past drunken idiots on the street - I had to help some uniform arrest a rowdy drunk on one of our dates once. He's never freaked out like this before."

"Oh I see where you're confused," Sherlock said, nodding, "You see, it's not really drunkenness that scares him. He doesn't like it, but it doesn't induce panic attacks like last night's."

Greg frowned.

"What does?"

Sherlock's gaze didn't waver as he stared at Greg and answered, "When someone who's drunk, or high, someone not in their right mind - sets their sights on him."

Greg sighed.

"I still don't follow."

"How shocking."

"Sherlock!"

"Well allow me to explain," said Sherlock, taking one more step forward. Greg's back hit the wall Sherlock had been poking at earlier.

"What do you think of our mother Lestrade?"

"This isn't explaining."

"All in good time. Answer the question."

Sighing, Greg replied, "Mycroft doesn't talk much about her. He seems to care for her though, so I guess she was alright."

Sherlock winced mockingly.

"What?"

"Wrong. So wrong."

"Well explain then," Greg snapped.

Sherlock ducked his head, a bitter smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

"Our mother was a cold, unfeeling woman. The sort who'd rather watch you drown than risk dirtying her hands by pulling you to safety. She was not alright in the slightest."

"What does this have to do with anything?"

"Not all that much," Sherlock conceded, before spitting, "But I never like to miss an opportunity, and I do hate portraying her as a victim."

Heaving a deep breath, Sherlock fixed his gaze back on Greg and continued.

"In spite of that, Mycroft's always been horribly sentimental. He's always valued family above all others, simply because they were family. It's one of the few illogical traits he has. He'd do anything for it you see.

"As you've probably noticed, I'm not similarly inflicted. Not anymore. As the years went by I stopped caring about mother and father's little games, and my life got much better for it. Mycroft, however, remained unchanged and he suffered."

"What do you mean?" Greg asked quietly.

"You know the sort of woman mother was. Not the one for gratitude. Or concern, or regret or remorse. Father was a similarly hateful man. Sober he was a complete bastard, drunk - which seemed to be his default state, he was worse."

Chuckling bitterly, Sherlock murmured, "And they had this game you see. Scripted little plays they'd act out when things became to dull, when they needed a little excitement. Father would go down to the pub, and drink and drink, until it shut or they chucked him out, whichever came first. And then he'd come home. He'd make sure everyone knew he was home, what's an actor without an audience? He used to slam the doors, and bang on the walls as he passed. Like this-"

Greg jumped as Sherlock slammed his fist into the wall beside his ear four times.

"Mother would wait in the lounge room and scream 'You're drunk!' when father walked in, as if it weren't obvious. 'You're drunk Siger. You pig! I should have never married a lout like you!'. Father would go over and lean over her, thinking he was being charming. 'We both know why Elizabeth. It's because of all the things I can do to you.'."

"Sherlock!" Greg cried, disgusted.

"You wanted to know," Sherlock snapped, "I'm telling you. Well mother would scream and cry about how vulgar he was, how disgusting-"

"It is vulgar and disgusting."

"Shut up!" Sherlock snarled, "I know that! But it's what they used to do. And don't start feeling sorry for her, she never made any move to leave. She wasn't scared of him, she'd wait for him in their room afterwards. This was all foreplay!"

"Then why the hell are you telling me about it?" Greg yelled.

"Because this is our part," Sherlock answered with a twisted grin, "I told you Mycroft was sentimental. He'd see father making advances on mother and mother spitting and snarling and he'd try to defuse the situation. He'd suggest father go to the spare room, sleep it off. Well mother took that as her cue. She'd make one last comment, just to really rile father up, and then she'd stalk to their room and wait."

"For what?"

Sherlock's tone became more bitter by the syllable as he answered, "For father to finish with us. You see, the plan was - he works out his frustrations on us, and then they go and make up afterwards. As soon as mother left the room, you knew you were in trouble. He'd turn to you and grab your arm, real tight. Like this-"

Sherlock seized Greg's upper arm, squeezing painfully tight. Greg winced.

"Then he'd shake you about like this," Sherlock roughly shook Greg, "He'd scream down at you and whack you about the head. And you would ask him to stop, plead for him to stop - but he wouldn't."

"Look, Sherlock," Greg cried, "I get the idea. Let go."

"Ah, but father never would," Sherlock replied solemnly, although the shaking did stop. "Not even when you cry and beg for him to. No, if you did that, he'd drag you over to the sofa - like you did last night I believe -"

"It was nothing like this!" Greg cried as he stumbled after Sherlock, who did as he said and dragged him to the sofa.

Seizing a fistful of the inspector's shirt, he hissed, "This was exactly what it was like for Mycroft," and threw Greg down on top of the cushions.

"You'd probably unbuckled your belt by now, he would have too. Different reasons I assure you," Sherlock announced, wrestling with Greg until he had the older man pinned stomach down on the chair. Leaning down, he hissed, "Some nights were worse than others. When he was completely plastered, quite like you were last night, he didn't know when to stop, when a thrashing was just that or when you wouldn't be able to get up afterwards.

"The only hope you had, was to find an opportunity to flee take it and hide somewhere until he'd sobered up a bit. He'd find you eventually and you'd still get in trouble for it, but he'd be sober enough to not accidentally kill you. I'd go to Mycroft's room and hide, he'd come to mine. But it didn't take long to learn that it was better to just not beg to be let go to begin with. Take the shaking and yelling and slapping, get it done with. No sofa, no belting - everyone's happy."

Slowly, Sherlock removed the knee he'd placed in the small of Greg's back, and sat down on the coffee table, running a hand tiredly through his hair.

Greg sprung up the second he could, panting heavily and eyes wide. He was too shocked by what just happened and all of this new information to be angry with Sherlock.

Smiling wryly, Sherlock murmured, "You're still confused."

Scrubbing his face roughly with his hands, Greg panted, "Look, that's horrible Sherlock, it really is. But I think you've got the wrong end of the stick. Last night was nothing like that, I swear."

"Oh I've no doubt," Sherlock replied, "But it was similar enough to scare Mycroft to a point where it was exactly like that for him."

"But I didn't do any of that."

"Didn't you?" Sherlock asked, "Correct me if I'm wrong, but so far as I can see - last night, you came home absolutely trashed, yes?"

"Yes."

"A state both Mycroft and myself have come to associate with bad things for us. But that alone wouldn't have worried him all too much. He probably would have suggested you go to bed, sleep it off. Correct?"

Greg nodded numbly. Sherlock chuckled.

"And he calls me a creature of habit. If you'd done that, there would have been no problem. You'd have gotten a lecture, but not much else. So things progressed further. You care for my brother - even I will swear to that, you wouldn't have attacked him violently."

"Never," Greg insisted.

"However, I can see you trying to _jump_ him, which probably involved grabbing him and pressing him up against a wall. That one to be exact, yes?"

"Yes," Greg answered quietly .

"You were drunk and misjudged your strength. There a slight cracks there where there weren't last time I visited not too long ago. Considering the situation, I'd say Mycroft hit it quite hard."

Greg groaned and buried his face in his hands.

"Under normal circumstances he wouldn't mind - but at the time and knowing what you now know, see it from his point of view. Very drunk man grabs a hold of him and then proceeds to slam him against a wall. They seem like decent enough triggers to me. And then, naturally, things would begin progressing towards the sofa. He wouldn't have asked you to stop or to let go, like I said, we learned not to, so you'd have no reason to think he was too out of sorts. But in spite of that, you were still taking him there and he was already well and truly panicking. I dare say - he wasn't quite with you anymore Lestrade."

Greg groaned again.

"You took off your belt. Look - here it is on the floor. He'd have heard that and that would have been the final straw. First opening he got - up, out and to my room, just like old times."

Greg scrubbed roughly at his face and breathed deeply.

"I really screwed up," he groaned.

"A little," Sherlock replied, "But to be fair, he should have told you. But now you know, and I've preformed the sacred _brotherly duty_ and some how avoided arrest - try to avoid it reoccurring in future and we'll all live on happily."

"Future?" Greg laughed humorlessly, "What future? He'll probably have Anthea or Vespa or whatever she's calling herself, pack up and take his things by the end of the day."

"Don't be so melodramatic," Sherlock scoffed.

Another bark of laughter escaped Greg who was clutching at his hair.

"He's forgiven me for much worse."

"But you're his little brother, he loves you," Lestrade moaned.

"And you're his Greg. He loves you," Sherlock replied simply, wincing slightly at how disgustingly lovey-dovey that sounded.

Greg glanced up, shocked to say the least.

Sherlock shrugged.

"What did I tell you? Horribly sentimental."

He smirked, stood, brushed himself off and turned to leave calling, "He'll forgive you, count on that," Over his shoulder.

"How can you be so sure?"

Sherlock paused, back still to Greg. Shrugging, he replied, "Experience."

Greg sighed.

"If it makes you feel better, I have a suggestion."

"Yes?"

Sherlock ducked his head, still facing away from Greg. Sighing regretfully he replied, "Do what our parents never would and what I never could. Try apologising."

And with that, he was gone.


	2. Chapter 2

He had a hour to himself, before Mycroft himself walked through the door.

During that time Greg went over what had just happened and more importantly, what he had to do, over and over in his mind.

Obviously it couldn't happen again. He couldn't bear for it to happen again and if Sherlock's observations were accurate (and they nearly always were) neither could Mycroft. That in itself was an easy enough goal to accomplish. All he had to do was make sure he didn't overdo it in future. Save last night, that was his general rule of thumb anyway - so, that wasn't a problem, that wasn't what was worrying him.

No, what was worrying him was how Mycroft was going to be when he got back.  
>Would he be angry? Greg probably would be, if their circumstances were reversed. But then, Mycroft rarely reacted to situations the same way Greg did.<br>Would it be worse? Would he be scared of him? Christ Greg didn't want that. He couldn't bear the thought of Mycroft being scared of him.

Fortunately, before he could work himself up too much, the front door swung open and Mycroft stepped inside.

He looked terrible. There were bags under his eyes, his hair was unkempt and his usually meticulously kept suit was horribly rumpled after, what Greg assumed to be, a night spent sleeping on his brother's sofa.

The metaphorical iron bands, that had wrapped themselves around his chest upon Sherlock's departure, tightened further still.

It was him, Greg, who'd done that. He was the cause of that distress.

But he didn't look angry and he didn't look scared, and Greg decided that those were both rather good signs.

Running a hand through his hair, he sat up straighter and smiled sadly over at his partner, who was still standing in the doorway.

Mycroft smiled back.

"Sherlock told me about his visit," he sighed, finally stepping further inside and shutting the door behind him. "I sincerely apologise for not intervening. It was my understanding that he was harassing the staff of Bart's instead."

Greg chuckled.

"I see. He slipped under your radar did he?"

Mycroft smirked.

"So it would seem. With help I'm afraid. My assistant and I will be having words tomorrow. John, I have dealt with already."

"John?"

"He's become quite the adapt little liar," Mycroft chuckled, "Under my brother's tutelage."

Greg shook his head, smiling tiredly. They descended back to silence. Mycroft wandered over and perched on the arm of the sofa with a sigh.

"Are you alright?" he asked quietly.

"What do you mean?"

"Like I said. Sherlock told me about his visit. I'd hoped he'd been exaggerating, but I can see now," he glanced about the room, "That he was not. So, are you alright?"

Running a hand through his hair, Greg answered, "Yeah, I'm alright."

Mycroft nodded, murmuring, "That's good."

"What about you?" Greg asked, shifting so he was facing Mycroft, "How are you?"

"Fine," Mycroft answered, although not all that convincingly, "I'm fine."

Frowning, Greg pressed on.

"You don't look fine," he said.

"Well perhaps I'm a bit tired," Mycroft conceded with a small smile, "Nothing a few hours rest can't mend."

Greg didn't believe him for a second.

Sighing sadly, he murmured, "You promised you wouldn't lie to me."

"It's not a lie," said Mycroft, staring down at the backs of his hands where they rested on his thighs.

"It's not the whole truth though, is it?" Greg pointed out.

Mycroft remained silent.

Greg reached up and took one of Mycroft's hands in his own. He was relieved that Mycroft didn't flinch away from him when he did.

"Mycroft," he murmured, pressing a feather-light kiss to his lover's knuckles, "I'm so sorry about scaring you last night."

Mycroft bowed his head.

"It's not your fault," he sighed, "I didn't tell you. I should have, but I didn't. You weren't to know."

Well, that at least was true. It didn't make Greg feel any less guilty, but it was true.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he asked, rubbing soothing circles on the back of Mycroft's hand with his thumb.

Mycroft shrugged, still stubbornly avoiding Greg's eye.

"It's humiliating," he sighed.

Greg frowned.

"No it's not."

"Yes it is."

"How's it humiliating?"

Finally, Mycroft glanced over at him. Squeezing Greg's hand, he stood from the arm of the chair and settled down beside him.

"It happened years ago," he said, gazing down at their interlaced fingers, "And those who used to do it, they died years ago too. It's well and truly in the past, and I just- it shouldn't still bother me the way it does. I thought it didn't any more."

Mycroft squeezed his eyes shut and swallowed thickly. Greg squeezed his hand in an attempt to reassure him.

"It's ridiculous and foolish. I... I didn't want you thinking of me as a fool."

"I don't think I would ever be able to think of you as a fool Mycroft," Greg chuckled.

"How can you not?" Mycroft moaned, tugging at his already unkempt hair with his free hand, "After last night's display, how could you not see me as anything but an utter idiot?"

"Easily," Greg replied simply.

Mycroft sighed, unconvinced.

"Mycroft Holmes," Greg rumbled, "You are the most brilliant, smartest, bravest man I have ever met. Some really horrible things happened to you as a kid and I'm so sorry that they did. But being affected by that, being scared by it - that doesn't make you stupid, or weak."

With the hand that Mycroft wasn't clutching like a lifeline, Greg reached over and stroked his lover's cheek, murmuring, "None of this is you fault Mycroft. I wish you'd told me about it sooner. I would have never let it come to this if I'd known, I swear. But we can't do anything about that now. Just know that I really, truly am sorry about what happened, about scaring you and making you relive all that. And know that I'll never do that to you again, alright?"

Mycroft sighed.

"Your life shouldn't be impacted by my shortcomings Gregory."

"My life's been impacted by many of your shortcomings in the past love," Greg pointed out with a teasing smiling tugging at his lips, "Like that bloody diet of yours, or your insisting on dumping my _entire_ wardrobe.

"It was hideous," Mycroft retorted half-heartedly, although the familiar argument appeared to soothe him as much as it did Greg.

Smiling, Greg continued, "And your life's been impacted by mine. That's what this relationship thing is all about, don't you know?"

Mycroft smiled.

"As it is, this isn't a shortcoming. This is just something that affects you, that we've got to work around. Like an allergy I guess."

Mycroft scoffed. Greg grinned.

"An allergy?"

"Yeah, an allergy. That's a good enough analogy," Greg replied, nodding decisively. "And like an allergy, we'll manage it by eliminating the risk of a reaction i.e. I won't come back from my office parties drunk as a skunk again. It won't be a difficult habit to break. I'm not nearly as young as I used to be. Alcohol begins to lose its appeal when the hangover outweighs the intended benefits of intoxication itself."

Leaning back against the sofa, Mycroft smiled indulgently.

"Is that so?"

"Absolutely," Greg replied, leaning back beside him, "The only reason I was drunk last night in fact, was because Gregson, the lying git, tried to convince everyone that he'd always been able to drink me under the table back when we were both uniforms."

Mycroft chuckled at that.

Greg leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek, resting his forehead against Mycroft's.

"I'm really sorry about what happened," he murmured.

"It's not your fault Gregory. You didn't know."

"Nonetheless," Greg sighed.

Mycroft kissed him back and whispered, "If it makes you feel any better, I hold nothing against you my love."

Smiling, Greg quietly replied, "And I certainly don't think any less of you."

Mycroft heaved a shuddering breath.

"Good," he murmured, leaning over and wrapping his arms around Greg's neck, pulling him close, "I'm glad."

The End


End file.
